


Wicked Games

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Abduction, Anal Fingering, Dark fic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deadpool is Not Nice in this one, Forced Orgasm, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, Like, M/M, NSFW, Non-Consensual, Orgasm Denial, Peter is not in for a fun time, READ THE FREAKING TAGS, Really dark, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Torture Porn, Violence, Whump, graphic depictions of rape, handjob, hoo boy, horror tones, if you don't like darkfics don't read, not like my usual stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-03-08 18:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18900607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: “Let’s make this clear: nobody’s coming to save you. Nobody knows where you are. None of your superhero buddies – no-one. You’ll take anything I want, in whatever hole I want. You’re mine. Understand, baby boy?”orPeter plays very unwilling guest to a certain loud-mouthed psychopath. Will he be rescued, escape, or descend into the darkness of Deadpool's lust?DARK-FIC. PLEASE CHECK THE TAGS BEFORE READING.





	1. Captured

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mikazure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikazure/gifts).



> LAST CHANCE TO STOP READING. This fic is DARK. Nasty shit awaits those who continue. For those who seek depravity, follow me down . . .
> 
> A birthday gift for my beloved @mikazure.

The first thing Peter registers when his mind crawls into consciousness is the bite of cold metal against his skin. The room is dark, but he can feel he’s exposed, naked as a newborn. Even the boxers he wears under his suit have been removed. He tries to shake the drowsiness from his head, but his movement is cut short by the heavy clank of a chain and a pinch around his neck. A thick metal collar encircles his throat, attached to the floor of his cell by links the width of his fingers. Four identical cuffs restrain his wrists and ankles.

  The collar digs into his Adam’s apple and makes him cough, so he focuses instead on releasing his wrists. He tugs and strains until the veins pop on his forehead, but to no avail. He’s yet to come across any metal he can’t bend, or even break, but this is something different. He slumps, panting with frustration. He tries to remember how he got here. All his memory offers is a dingy alleyway and a flash of black and red, the sharp sting of a blade.   

  He looks down at the cut already healing on his left forearm. A clean slice, expertly delivered. This was no usual thug with a clumsy switchblade. Why can he not remember? It’s like there’s a fog in his mind. His breath hitches, adrenaline spiking in his brain. His spider-senses are going crazy – warning him of the impending danger with as much usefulness as a wet floor sign in Long Island Sound. The panicked clinking of his chains are silenced by the sound of a door opening somewhere to his right. He tries to turn, every muscle in his body garnering as much strength as they can muster.

  The fall of heavy footsteps down a flight of stone steps precede the sharp _click_ of a light switch, casting the room into harsh relief. It would look like a standard suburban basement, were it not for the terrifying collection of guns and torture instruments adorning the walls. A sink and toilet that may have once been white are installed in one corner, an industrial-sized fridge-freezer in the other. The sudden illumination makes his eyes sting, but he forces himself to keep them open.

  “You’re awake.” The voice is cheery, familiar. “Excellent.”

  Peter wants to say something threatening, but that is easier said than done when you’re chained, naked, to the floor of a metal cage. He settles for sullen silence. He should reserve all the strength he can, in any case.

  “I was starting to worry,” the man says, his features still shadowed. A gloved hand reaches through the bars to touch Peter’s face. Black leather. He flinches away from the groping fingers, squirming as they weave through his hair.

  “How’re you feeling?” the man asks, as though sitting at Peter’s hospital bedside. “You may feel a little woozy, nauseous, maybe stomach cramps. It affects people differently.”

  The man moves towards the other side of the cage. With the light no longer behind him, Peter can make out his features. Those of his mask, anyway.

  “Deadpool,” he gasps.

  The villain’s eye-whites narrow; not in malice, rather like he’s smiling under the red canvas. He strokes Peter’s hair, softly, as one might a lover. Or a pet. He shifts Peter’s cuffs to examine the red marks beneath, evidence of the boy’s attempts to free himself.

  “Quite something, isn’t it?” Deadpool says, rapping against the cage bars. “Solid vibranium. Same stuff used for Captain Cheerleader’s shield and Black Kitty-Cat’s claws.”

  “I know what vibranium is,” Peter hisses.

  “Sure you do, I just wanted to remind the readers,” Deadpool says. “Seems to be the only metal able to hold you down. Same plot convenience that happily forgets any qualms I might have had about doing this to you.”

  Peter has no idea what this psychopath is talking about; he can only focus on the fear writhing in the pit of his stomach. In every other dangerous situation he’s ever found himself in, he’s felt a sense of control. He was always in control of his strength, able to give them everything he had. This time, he’s completely at his enemy’s mercy (or lack thereof).

  “Where’s my suit?” he asks.

  “You mean your cute little onesie?” Deadpool chuckles. He shrugs away the question and smooths his hand down the curve of Peter’s spine. Peter shifts in protest, but sees the gleam of a serrated hunting knife at his captor’s belt and falls still.

  “That’s a good boy,” Deadpool murmurs. Peter cringes as those thick fingers squeeze gently into the flesh of his ass. Removing his hand, he moves around the cage to grant himself better access to Peter’s back end. Peter feels his finger prodding experimentally at his asshole, tracing a line down to his scrotum.

  “Stop!” He tries to sound aggressive, but his desperation is too transparent.

  “Not your call, I’m afraid,” Deadpool says, dark mirth in his voice. He swirls the tip of his finger.

  “Please!” Peter beseeches. “Don’t—”

  “That’s it,” Deadpool pushes a little harder, Peter’s entire body straining to move out of reach. “I knew you’d beg so prettily. Gotta admit, I thought it would take longer. Never had anything in this little back pocket, have you?”

  Peter shakes his head, tears of anger and dread spilling onto his cheeks as he feels himself stretch around Deadpool’s finger. It’s just the one, but the intrusion is so alien, so new, his body so tense, that he whimpers.

  “Like that?”

  Peter shakes his head and begs, “Stop . . . please . . .”

  “Oh, but this is just the first appetiser in our little feast,” Deadpool says, wiggling his finger inside Peter and making him squirm with revulsion. He places a large hand on the boy’s stomach and hoists him onto all-fours, feeling his muscles clenching. The cage is small enough, the bars set wide enough apart, that he can do this with ease, without having to unlock it. His fingers move further south until the tip of his pinkie touches the root of Peter’s cock – flaccid and shrunken from fear and the cold air.

  “I promise you,” the mercenary whispers, “by the entrée, you’ll be begging me for it. By dessert, you’ll be fucking yourself on me like a whore playing STD bingo.”

  “Never,” Peter spits.

  Without warning, Deadpool inserts a second finger and Peter yelps like a whipped dog. Deadpool’s other hand takes hold of his balls and squeezes tightly enough for the threat to be clear.

  “Ask for a third or I pull them off,” Deadpool says, all hint of amusement gone.

  Peter gasps, his forehead damp with sweat. He doesn’t think he can take another inside him, but his senses are screaming that Deadpool isn’t fooling around.

  “Do it . . .”

  His voice is barely audible. Deadpool’s fingers tighten and a sharp ache throbs in his groin. He holds back a sob.

  “Put it in! Put it in!”

  “Manners?”

  “ _Please_!”

  His whimper rises to a wail as Deadpool inserts the third finger, feeling something warm trickling down his leg to pool in the bend of his knee.

  “Theeere we go,” Deadpool rotates his fingers and Peter lurches forwards as far as his restrains will allow. He feels sick to his stomach. “Nothing like a little artery juice to get you nice and slick.”

  As he begins to thrust his digits deep inside his body, Peter thinks he has never felt pain like this. His very core is burning as the delicate flesh splits and tears, so deep and white-hot that he can’t believe it will ever heal. He sobs, his face pressed into the metal floor.

  “Stop,” he gasps. “Please stop, please stop . . .”

  His entire body gasps with relief as Deadpool withdraws his fingers. Peter feels his asshole desperately trying to shrink back to its usual size, the ring of muscle throbbing and clenching around the blessed nothing inside it. He sags to the floor, his chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. He barely notices Deadpool’s movements until he feels his bloodied fingers under his jaw, lifting his gaze to meet his own. Those cold, dead-white eyes stare down at him, and Peter feels hatred coursing through his veins like poison. Deadpool hunches down on his heels and Peter expels a spray of spit into his face. Calmly, Deadpool unholsters one of the guns from his belt and rests its hard muzzle against the underside of Peter’s chin. He pushes it further up and Peter feels a twinge of pain shoot down his neck.

  “Let’s make this clear: nobody’s coming to save you,” Deadpool says. “Nobody knows where you are. None of your superhero buddies – no-one. You’ll take anything I want, in whatever hole I want. Whether _you_ want it or not, I don’t give a fuck. You’re mine. Understand, baby boy?”

  Peter is silent, his vocal cords stretched taut by the angle of his throat. He wants to scream, wants to curse in Deadpool’s soulless face, but the threat of the gun is too insistent against his skin. Deadpool may want him, for his own twisted reasons, but he would never put it past him to pull the trigger. He manages a tiny nod.

  “Wonderful,” Deadpool holsters the gun in one fluid movement, letting Peter’s head drop heavily to the floor. He cradles the boy’s cheek in the palm of his hand, and Peter can’t bring himself to pull away. He’s so tired, in too much pain. “Obviously I can’t let you out just yet,” he says, “but if you’re a good puppy, I might take these off.” He jangles the chain of Peter’s collar.

  Peter watches in disgust as the merc lifts the bottom of his mask, revealing deeply scarred, mottled skin, and licks his gloved fingers clean, one at a time. He grins; his lips are broken and chapped around perfect, pearly-white teeth. _All the better to bite you with_ , Peter can almost hear him saying. “Anyhoo – hungry?”

  Peter just looks at him with a blank, dead stare.

  “Me too,” Deadpool replaces his mask and flutters his fingers in Peter’s direction. “I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t go anywhere, ‘kay?”

  With a dark chuckle, he flips the light-switch and casts the room into darkness again. Peter forces himself to wait for the slam of the door before he allows the tears to come.

 

\--------------------------------

 

During the hour in which he’s left alone, Peter tries every trick he can think of to free himself from his prison. He remembers that supposedly breaking one’s thumbs can free hands from cuffs but, after brief deliberation, decides against it. For one thing, these cuffs are far too tight to allow any such wriggle room, and how could he hope to fight his way out with his thumbs dangling painful and useless?

  He pulls and tugs on the chains until the edge of his constraints cut far enough into his skin to draw blood, cursing the immovable metal. His asshole is still trickling tiny drops down the backs of his thighs. He understands his healing factor well enough to know that it will take at least a full day to mend, if he’s even given that much time. Deadpool has already proven in spectacular form that he has no concern for his guest’s comfort. He’s so hungry, his stomach growling in protest at its emptiness.

  He wonders how long it will take for people to start looking for him – if they would ever find him. May will start worrying as soon as he doesn’t make it home for supper, Ned when she undoubtedly calls him, and Mr. Stark when he fails to check in with Happy on Monday. He prays that Deadpool may have left something at the scene of his kidnap – some clue that will lead Mr. Stark to him. However, he suspects the bastard’s done this enough times not to be so careless. How many other poor souls has he imprisoned here, forced them to submit to his twisted will?

  By the time his host returns, Peter is lying supine on the cell floor, his wrists still tugging fruitlessly at their bonds and trying to ignore the sharp, chafing pain the movement aggravates. Deadpool switches on the light – Peter flinching from the brightness – and parks himself at the head of Peter’s cage on crossed legs. He has a bottle of water and an overstuffed sandwich balanced on a plate. He’s changed out of his suit into street clothes – dark jeans and a grey hooded sweater. His dark eyes and defined jaw gave his face the ghost of handsomeness, were it not for the skin that covers it, marbled and morphed like the skin of an old apple.

  He untwists the bottle cap and offers it. Peter wants to accept nothing from this monster parading as a human being, but his mouth is parched, and he knows without water he’ll lose strength quicker. He lifts his head and opens his mouth.

  “Tongue,” Deadpool prompts.

  Hating himself – hating Deadpool more – Peter extends his tongue and accepts the few drops he’s rewarded with. It’s barely enough to quench, but he suspects more will require entertainment for his captor as payment. Deadpool tears the sandwich into small pieces and holds a fragment in front of Peter’s lips, tempting him. Peter lashes out with as hard a bite as he can manage, his teeth catching on Deadpool’s thumb as he jerks his hand away. He doesn’t seem angry – on the contrary, a smirk is playing about his scarred lips.

  “Guess I should have expected that,” he says. “You always were a mouthy one.”

  He gets to his feet and walks over to a work bench lining one of the basement walls, returning with four items: two dog bowls, a ball gag, and a thin wooden cane. Peter’s eyes trail along its slim length, curving at one end; the sort you’d expect to see being wielded by a Victorian schoolmaster. He watches as Deadpool fills the bowls, one with water, the other with the crumbled sandwich. Pulling a tiny key from his pocket, he unlocks the door of the cage, placing the bowls just outside, out of reach.

  “Open up,” he says, stretching the gag’s leather straps between his fingers.

  Peter clamps his teeth shut. He knows he’ll regret it, but he just can’t bring himself to blindly follow the psychopath’s orders. Deadpool sighs, disappointed, and picks up the cane, striking a sharp blow across the knuckles of Peter’s right hand. Peter winces, but doesn’t give in, not even when his left fingers receive the same treatment.

  “Open your mouth,” he says, calm as a stroll in the park, “or I’ll cut one of your fucking ears off.”

  Peter’s heart hammers and his eyes well up, but still he shakes his head, pressing his face into the floor. Deadpool growls.

  “God-fucking-damn it,” he says. “You’re just too darn cute when you cry. Lemme see that pretty face.”

  Cupping Peter’s jaw, he lifts his gaze, seemingly appreciating the sight of Peter’s pink eyes and trembling lips.

  “Please . . .” Peter whimpers. “Let me go . . .”

  “Not yet, sweetie-pie,” Deadpool says, almost regretfully, like it’s not his decision to make. “We’ve still got so much to do. You wouldn’t wanna miss the fun, now would you? Now, come on,” his voice is gentle, “open your mouth.”

  Slowly, somewhat hypnotised by the tenderness in his tone, Peter complies. The silicone ball is forced between his lips, the straps pulled tights at the back of his head.

  “Eyes up here, baby,” Deadpool says, the lens of his phone camera glinting in Peter’s face. He takes photos from various angles, even a 360-degrees video clip. Peter wonders if he’s planning on sending it to Mr. Stark in demand for ransom. Through the shame of his mentor seeing him in this state, he hopes that he does – it would be the first clue in revealing his location. The Avengers would surely track him down in no time. With this optimism glimmering in his mind, he endures the humiliation of Deadpool prodding and pulling him into various positions, each time snapping a shot.

  “These’ll do great for the scrapbook,” he says, tucking the phone inside his pocket and squatting down in front of Peter. “Now. I’m gonna take this out, and we’re gonna play a little game. Simple rules: I’m gonna tan this pretty little backside of yours,” he reaches down Peter’s back to grasp one of his ass cheeks, “and you’re not gonna make a single noise. Not a peep, not a squeak. Zip. Nada. Right?”

  Peter merely glares at him, trying to pour every drop of his hatred into the connection between them.

  “If you win,” Deadpool continues, tapping the rim of the sandwich bowl, “you get num-nums.”

  He removes the gag from Peter’s mouth, a long string of spit dangling from his lips. His question of how Deadpool’s planning to cane him while he’s inside the cage is answered when the long side panel of the unit is unlocked and swung open. Seems all sides are on hinges. Deadpool gives Peter’s ass a quick tap, urging him forwards. The sting takes him by surprise and he shuffles closer to the front of the cage in an unconscious attempt to escape it.

  “Ready, steady—”

  A brutal lash against Peter’s ass draws an uncontrollable yelp of pain from him and he drops his forehead to the ground.

  “Just practicing,” Deadpool says with amusement. “Go.”

  This time, Peter is prepared for the blow, clenching his teeth against the pain that sears across his flesh like a brand. The lashes come again and again, across his cheeks and the backs of his thighs. A couple of times the cane grazes his balls and he almost cries out, but greater than the desire for food is his wish to deny Deadpool any satisfaction in his pain. The blows come harder and faster, Peter’s eyes streaming with the effort of keeping his voice muted. After what feels like hours, the rain of lashes finally ceases, and he feels the tender touch of Deadpool’s hand on his burning skin.

  “That looks bad, baby,” he says, with the air of someone who had simply observed the torture, rather than being its instigator. This guy really was a psychopath. “Well done.”

  Vision hazy with tears and agony, Peter vaguely registered the bowl of bread, salad and meat being presented to him, just within reach for him to eat from it like an animal. Any trace of dignity he may have had is momentarily lost in his desperation for sustenance, and he complies with what is expected of him.

  “Good boy,” Deadpool sooths, stroking his head like an injured dog. “Make sure you drink enough, too.”

  Peter moves to slurp from the other bowl, only to feel Deadpool’s large hand fix on the back of his head, forcing his face into the water, his nose grating against the hard chrome bottom. For a moment, he’s sure Deadpool means to drown him, but at the last minute he’s released, spluttering and coughing, water dripping from his hair.

  “Sorry,” Deadpool says, cold as steel. “Guess I always was a sore loser.” He looks at the puddles of water now spilled across the cage floor. “Tut tut, baby boy – look at this mess. You need to keep your room clean.”

  Peters knows what he’s insinuating, but his remaining dreg of stubborn pride refuses to submit. Deadpool leans closer, and Peter resists every animal urge to back away, staring instead into those malevolent eyes, dark as the soul behind them.

  “If looks could kill,” Deadpool says with a smirk. “Too bad I can’t be. You, however . . .”

  Peter feels a cold wave of fear pass over him as the merc draws out a pocket-knife from his jeans, flicking the blade into life.

  “You know, I always preferred knives to guns,” he says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, guns are sexy as fuck, but there’s just something about _that_ look,” he gestures between Peter’s eyes, “that _really_ gives me a hard-on.”

  Peter’s body freezes in place as Deadpool traces the knifepoint across his cheek, not yet hard enough to draw blood, but enough to send a shiver down his spine.

  “Which would you rather lose?” Deadpool asks conversationally. “An eye or your tongue?”

  Peter draws a sharp intake of breath, his heart thundering fit to burst, every cell in his body trembling. He doesn’t dare move a muscle as Deadpool encircles the skin around his left eye with the dull edge of the blade.

  “Such pretty baby browns,” he says softly. “Would certainly be a shame to waste them. Though I could always carry one around with me, then I can gaze into your eyes – _eye_ – whenever I wanted.”

  “Please . . .” Peter breathes, reluctant to open his mouth wider than a hair’s breadth.

  “And could I really be without that sweet little voice?” Deadpool deliberates. “I did so want to hear it screaming my name, begging for my cock.”

  _I’ll die first_ , Peter thinks acidly, hoping his body can be as resolved as his mind.

  “Maybe I’ve been going about this the wrong way,” Deadpool says pensively, tapping the blade against his own lips. “Yeah . . . This is no way to treat my new puppy, is it? Idiot.” He knocks the heel of his hand against his forehead and laughs. “Spare the rod, spoil the child. At least for now.”

  He rises sharply to his feet and Peter flinches, startled by the sudden movement. Less than twelve hours with this maniac and he’s already jumpy as a frightened rabbit. He strains to follow Deadpool’s path around to the back of the cage, the rear panel swinging open. Suspecting “spoiling the child” will involve something being stuck up his ass again, Peter clenches his legs and cheeks together as firmly as he can in a desperate attempt to protect himself.

  “Relax, sweetie,” Deadpool croons, and Peter feels his broad body covering his own, rough denim scratching against the fresh wounds on his rear.

  To his bewilderment, he doesn’t feel anything pressing against his hole, rather a soft, stroking touch on his stomach, edging down towards his crotch. He screws his eyes shut as Deadpool’s fingers wrap around his cock and begin to massage it with astonishing delicacy. It’s the first time any hand apart from his own has touched it.

  “Such a sweet little cock,” Deadpool whispers, his lips close enough for Peter to feel his breath. His teeth graze the shell of the boy’s ear, pulling on his earlobe and moving to suck on the skin at his neck. Peter shudders and tries to close the gap between his head and shoulder, but Deadpool’s insistence is too strong. His neck has always been sensitive, and combined with the repeated stimulation of his cock, he finds himself – to his insurmountable horror – beginning to harden.

  “That’s it,” Deadpool murmurs, his pace quickening a little, his wrist rolling back and forth. “Come on, baby boy – let Daddy take care of you.”

  Peter wants to retch at the word “Daddy”, but his treacherous body reacts in a different way.

  “You like that, baby?” He can hear the smirk in Deadpool’s voice. “You like being Daddy’s little boy?”

  Peter knows better than to ask him to stop, to beg for mercy – the evil bastard has none. His cock is almost fully hard now, and still his assailant continues to caress it. He can feel the hum of warmth growing in the pit of his stomach, and feels limitless disgust at himself for reacting this way. This psycho has kidnapped him, tortured him, and at one touch he’s ready to _cum_? How sick is that? He tells himself that it’s just his body’s natural reaction to being fondled like this. Lots of guys get hard-ons when they’re scared or nervous, right? It’s nothing to do with Deadpool – it could be anyone’s hand, anyone’s heavy body draped over him, their own hard cock pressing into his ass through their pants.

  “Don’t worry, baby,” Deadpool says. “I won’t fuck you yet – wouldn’t want to break my toy when it’s fresh out of its packaging.”

  Peter wants to respond that he’s already sustained considerable damage, but he’s too busy concentrating on keeping the persistent waves of pleasure from reaching shore. It’s a losing battle, though, as Deadpool increases his pace and attentions to his nape and neck. Peter’s inexperienced cock – up ‘til now only trained to recognise its master’s hand – jumps in excitement, betraying any notions of fear and revulsion coursing through his veins with an impression of delight at such attention.

  “Come on,” Deadpool growls. “Come on, baby boy – cum for me. You love this. You love me touching you.”

  “I . . . _don’t_ . . .” Peter protests, but that only seems to spur Deadpool on.

  “Don’t what?” he demands.

  “Don’t . . . touch me . . .” He can hear the raggedness in his voice, sounding for all the world like the passion of a willing partner.

  “I’m gonna make you beg for this,” Deadpool says. “You’ll never be able to cum again unless it’s with me. You’re _mine_ – _my_ boy. My voice will be enough to make you hard. No-one else can ever touch you, get it? Fucking _no one_. You belong to me. Say it.”

  Peter can feel the pleasure – the pure, unbridled _bliss_ – building higher inside him, and he knows Deadpool can hear it in his rapid breaths, feel it in his twitching cock.

  “ _Say it_ ,” Deadpool snarls, his pace quickening until Peter is sure he’ll rip his cock off. “Say it or I’ll stop.”

  “No!” Peter gasps, though to what he’s protesting – Deadpool’s demand or his threat – even he isn’t sure of. All he can think of is the surging ecstasy rising up to meet him, heavy as molasses and scorching as fire, with such a sweetness as to sing through his entire body like an operatic aria.

  “Say it, Peter.” Deadpool slows, about to make good on his promise.

  “Please!” Peter cries out. “Please, let me . . . I belong to you, I belong to you, I be . . . belong . . . oh God . . . please . . . oh GOD . . .”

  His vision swims and blurs into white flames as he orgasms, cum shooting across the floor like water from a pistol. He feels the pleasure spread like tendrils down his legs and into his torso, overpowering the pain in his ass for one, golden, glorious moment.

  Deadpool crawls off him and slams the cage bars closed, coming round to sit at Peter’s side. Peter’s face is pressed against the floor, his laboured breathing fogging the polished metal, and he doesn’t notice Deadpool collecting the translucent liquid from beneath his arched body. His heavy eyes focus on the dripping fingers Deadpool presents to his lips, and he knows what is expected of him. In an almost drunken compliancy, he licks up the bitter fluid, wincing a little at the taste, but too full of exhaustion and afterglow to protest.

  “Such a good boy,” Deadpool murmurs, stroking his plaything’s hair and appreciating the soft pink flush staining his cheeks. _Mine_ , he thinks. “Sleep now.”

  Despite his fear, despite the horror of his situation, Peter’s eyes are already beginning to close. It isn’t until the light is extinguished, and his new master absent once more, that he realises something.

  Deadpool knows his name.             

     

            

 


	2. Imprisoned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one went a little meta.

Peter can’t tell how much time has passed when he comes around. There are no clocks in the basement, or even a window, so he cannot judge if it’s day or night. He is acutely aware of the agonising brands scored across his legs and buttocks as his body desperately tries to repair itself. He wishes he could sit up, cool the soreness against the metal floor, but his chains make that impossible. How long will it take before he’s unlocked from this position? Deadpool had said if he was good, he might earn more freedom of movement, but what did that entail? Not fighting back? Begging for punishment as Deadpool had promised he would? One thing was for sure - his chances of escaping were slim to none in his current situation. If he could just get outside the cage . . .

  There’s barely any water left in his bowl – since Deadpool had shoved his face in it – and Peter is bitterly reminded of the times before he’d gained his powers, when bullies would try to force his head down the toilet at school. He licks up what remains from the bowl, then, with a stab of reluctance, the puddles spilt across the floor. Staying alive is more important than his pride - for now, at least. He can’t help but think of all the horror films he’s watched through parted fingers in which this scenario plays out – a captive slave tortured into submission, gradually twisted and broken until all they can do is beg and obey. The thought makes him want to vomit. 

  He doesn’t look up when the door opens, not wanting to see the face of the man who made him bequeath ownership of his own body by means of sheer carnal pleasure. He’s weak, and he knows it. The good and noble Spider-Man - hero to children all over New York - brought to surrender by a hand-job he hadn’t even wanted. 

  “Good evening, Sleeping Beauty,” Deadpool says chirpily. “Enjoy your snooze?”

  Peter doesn’t respond. 

  “Not talking, huh?” Deadpool kneels at the head of the cage. A flash of red in the corner of Peter’s vision informs him that he’s back in his trademark colours. “Just off for a spot of murdering,” he says. “Should be back by morning, so don’t wait up.”

  This is partly what Peter finds so disturbing - the sheer unpredictability of Deadpool’s manner. He can say the most terrifying things in a tone cold as ice, or friendly as though they were the closest of chums. Why is he doing this to him? Their paths have crossed before - usually when Peter has had to wrestle some petty criminal out of the merc’s murderous clutches. Peter believes in justice, not cold-blooded revenge, especially not when it’s being paid for by someone else. The idea that anyone could be so truly soulless as to kill a stranger for the right price sickens him. The notion that, through his own doing, someone could lose their life makes his blood run cold; whereas Deadpool clearly just sees it as ‘taking out the trash’. 

  “Anything I can get you while I’m out? Gum? Pokémon cards? Not sure what you kids are into these days!” He chuckles and reaches through the bars to ruffle his hair. He’s about to stand when something snags his memory. “Oh, d’you need a leak?”

  He doesn’t, but any excuse to get out of this infernal cage is as welcome as sun on a wet picnic, so he nods.

  “Hmm . . .” Deadpool ponders for a moment. “How to do this . . . Reckon you could piss in a bucket from this angle?”

  Now Peter does look at him, incredulous despite his position. Is this seriously something the psycho hadn’t considered before locking him in this damn thing? He looks towards the toilet in the corner of the room.

  “I dunno, baby boy,” Deadpool says. “Tempting fate a little, isn’t it? Not that you’d get very far, but I could do without the hassle.”

  Remembering what the bastard had said about thinking him cute when he cried, Peter summons all his fear and wretchedness and lets the tears pool in his eyes.

  “Please . . .” he tries to make his voice as needy and pathetic as possible. It isn’t difficult.

  Deadpool cups his chin in his leather-clad palm and forces their gazes to meet. Peter stares him down with as little acidity as he can manage – his nature has never been inclined towards hatred for anyone, but what he feels for this monster can only be described as deepest loathing.

  “Sneaky little hobbit, aren’t you, precious?” Deadpool says with a grin in his voice. He presses his thumb against Peter’s lips, demanding entry, and Peter wills himself not to bite down as hard as he can. Removing the thick digit, Deadpool settles himself into a comfortable position and lifts his left-hand middle and forefingers, setting them to hover just before Peter’s mouth. Peter knows what is expected of him, knows it will be in his favour to comply, but he still hesitates before parting his lips and allows the harsh intrusion upon his tongue. He lets his assailant force the fingers further back until he feels his throat trying to reject them, too large for the narrow cavern of his mouth. He coughs and cringes as Deadpool adds a third finger, followed by a fourth, stretching Peter’s cheeks until the corners of his mouth begin to crack. The tip of Deadpool’s middle finger brushes the sensitive flesh of his uvula and he gags in earnest, flecks of spit spraying the floor. Extending his other hand, Deadpool tightens grip around Peter’s throat above his collar, constricting his airways, and begins to thrust his fingers roughly down his gullet. Genuine tears pour down Peter’s face as he struggles to breathe, his face purpling with the exertion.

  “No, come on,” Deadpool says, forcing Peter’s head back with the thumb of his right hand. “You can do it. You’ll have to deal with more than this soon enough, baby – the plot demands it.”

  Peter closes his eyes and tries to keep calm, relaxing his throat muscles. If he manages this, he might be let out of this infernal cage long enough to make a fight for it. He may not have his shooters, but he still has his strength and agility – enough to be more than a match for his kidnapper. Fuck, he feels bad. His stomach is roiling, his throat protesting against its invasion. After one final, brutal thrust, Peter wretches and Deadpool withdraws his fingers just in time to avoid the torrent of dark bile and undigested bread that spews from Peter’s mouth. Peter coughs and chokes, trying to avoid the foul-smelling liquid but unable to move from its path as it spills towards his hands. He cries; weak sobs that make him feel like a child, and Deadpool strokes his hair in comfort.

  “Oops,” he says, scuttling sideways to avoid the spreading pool of vomit. “Guess I gotta let you out now, huh? But any funny business and I’ll cut your hands off, okay?”

  Peter can only hang limply as Deadpool opens the front panel. He allows him to uncuff his wrists and neck, but his ankles aren’t released until his hands are bound together by a pair of metal handcuffs. Peter gives an experimental tug, but there’s no give – vibranium again. How much money does Deadpool have to be able to afford this custom stuff, not to mention the extensive variety of horror tools that decorate the walls?

  He expects his ankles to be bound in a similar fashion, but he’s instead allowed free movement of his legs. Perfect. Deadpool must assume that since his main weapons are dependent on the availability of his hands. Clearly he’s not as intelligent as he is bloodthirsty. He places one large hand on the back of Peter’s neck, using the other to drag him from his prison by the chain of his cuffs. As soon as his feet are within reach of the open panel, Peter pulls back on his arms, jerking Deadpool forwards, and deals him a hefty kick to the centre of his masked face. Deadpool grunts in pain and falls backwards, startled by the strength in Peter’s legs, leaving a gap wide enough for Peter to scramble through, a little off-balance but out of the cage. His first instinct is to dart for the door, but he knows Deadpool would be after him in a trice, so he turns to face the villain as he recovers from the initial surprise. Raising his hands, he brings them down as hard as he can on the top of Deadpool’s head, only to have his blow blocked by a hefty arm. He changes tack and drives a bare foot directly into Deadpool’s crotch.

  “Little fucker!” the merc growls, clutching at his balls and glaring at Peter through his mask. He pulls a gun from his belt and fires a bullet past Peter’s ear, so close it leaves a ringing in its wake. Peter freezes, paralysed by fear, his senses screaming at him to run, before grabbing the nearing object to hand – a standard workman’s hammer – and throwing it at Deadpool’s head. While the merc pauses to parry the blow, Peter turns and runs full speed up the steps, yanking on the doorknob. His stomach plummets a thousand feet when the wood doesn’t shift, and he tugs as hard as he can, hoping to maybe break the handle if he can’t force the whole thing open. His spider-sense spikes and he turns just in time to avoid a throwing knife hitting the back of his head, embedding itself instead in the wood of the door. Knowing so little about knife combat, and with his hands still indisposed, he doesn’t pull it out but turns to face the villain surging up the steps towards him. Left with no other choice, he launches himself from the top step and plants both feet firmly in Deadpool’s face, sending them both tumbling to the basement floor below. Ignoring the shooting pain in his limbs, he stumbles to his feet, suddenly aware of an unpleasant stickiness on the soles of his feet. He looks down and almost vomits again as he registers the blood coating his heels. Looking down at his opponent, he sees him lying on his back, the face of his mask squashed and misshapen. A disgusting ooze of blood is leaking out from the neck, accounting for its appearance on Peter’s feet.

  He’s not dead, Peter knows this, but he hopes that he may be incapacitated long enough for him to make some sort of exit. Returning to the door, trying not to slip on the steps, he tugs with as much strength as he can muster with his hands in such a cumbersome position. The wood splinters around the handle, breaking free and leaving a hole in its wake. When the door still doesn’t shift, Peter glances upwards and curses in a manner that would normally have earned him a reproachful glare from his aunt or a thumbs up from Clint and Nat. A thick bolt-lock is fitted into the wall, secured by a vibranium padlock. Hearing the squelching sound of movement from below, he pulls the knife free and begins stabbing at the wood surrounding the lock. He knows the easier solution would be to search Deadpool’s body for the key, but the terror of his captor recovering in that time prevents him. He quickly discovers that stabbing wood with a hunting knife while wearing handcuffs and trembling from adrenaline and terror is not as easy as one might think. Losing patience – and time, judging by the groans from Deadpool’s recuperating face – he throws the knife aside and simply begins to pull on the padlock. The metal doesn’t shift, but the wood slowly begins to give way. Planting his feet firmly on the top step so as not to go stumbling backwards, he uses every reserve of his strength to earn his freedom.

  “Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run,” a distorted and gargling voice sings from below.  

  Peter tugs desperately at the lock and, to his indescribable joy, it breaks loose, and the door swings open. He clatters through the dirty kitchen, his sticky feet skidding on the tiles, his eyes darting around for an exit. The lights are all out, but he doesn’t pause to switch them on. His head swims from fatigue, hunger and fear, not helped by the sound of heavy footfalls on the basement steps. Deadpool is slow, taking his time, like he has no reason to worry about his prisoner escaping. Ignoring this, Peter bursts into a living room – a definite misnomer considering the sheer volume of guns stacked about the place – and see what he is sure is the outer door. It is, of course, locked.

  “Don’t be afraid of Deadpool’s gun,” the sinister singing continues, now from the the basement steps.

  Peter can feel his strength slipping away even as he grabs the doorknob, his spider-senses spluttering like a dying engine. This door is thick, much stronger, with locks fastened at irregular intervals down its opening edge.

  “He’ll get by without his Petey-pie,” Deadpool’s voice is much closer, almost inside the room. “So run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run.”

  Peter barely has time to react to the desperate warning in his brain, and fails to dodge the flying blade, which lodges itself firmly in the back of his right hand, pinning it to the door. The pain is beyond anything he has ever experienced, and he cannot hold back the guttural scream that tears from his throat.

  The sound of heavy footsteps behind him sends him into a blind panic, wanting to wrench away but terrified of the damage he might cause if he does – not to mention the blood loss. His left hand dangles uselessly beside its incapacitated partner, the metal cuff digging into the bones of his wrist.  

  “Little Peter Rabbit trying to escape Mr. McGregor’s garden?” Deadpool asks, voice silky and dangerous.

  He’s right behind Peter now, his towering height casting a shadow across the faint golden light emitting from an outside streetlamp. Peter feels his heavy weight pressing up against his naked buttocks, his healing lash-marks sensitive enough to make him jump. Tears of pain course down his face.

  “Please . . .” he begs. “I’m sorry . . .”

  “Sorry you got caught,” Deadpool says. There’s no mirth in his voice now – just calm, cold fury. “What did I tell you, Peter?”

  “Wh . . . what?”

  “I said,” Deadpool leans down, his bloody breath hot and foul on the side of Peter’s face. “What did I tell you I’d do if you tried any funny business?”

  Peter’s racing mind falters. Deadpool’s long fingers encircle the wrist of his pierced hand.

  “I believe,” he says. “It involved you saying _auf wiedersehen_ to these pretty little hands.”

  Peter’s pushes against Deadpool’s bulk with all his remaining strength, but to no avail. He gives another high shriek of pain as the knife is withdrawn from his hand, a steady stream of blood spilling from the wound.

  “Luckily for you,” Deadpool says, twirling the knife, “I’m a softie at heart.”

  The blade flashes and, quicker than Peter can blink, he’s struck by a scorching pain in his right hand, followed by a strange wetness, then an icy wave that floods his entire body. He looks down and sees, in the half-dark, a severed finger lying on the dirty carpet. It takes him only a further moment to realise that it’s his.

  Overcome by the vortex of pain, fear and hot, silken blood, he passes out in Deadpool’s arms.   

 

\--------------------------------

 

It is a strange contraption he is strapped into when he finally wakes up, presumably one of Deadpool’s own design. He is seated on a tilted saddle that angles his body upwards, his knees brought up, ankles secured in place. His arms are suspended out to the sides by cuffs attached to the base of the contraption. The way his ass is positioned, exposed and accessible – combined with the tiny surveillance camera fixed to the wall above him – gives him absolutely no doubt as to what the object of this exercise will be. He struggles weakly, his energy still running on red, and notices the bandage wrapped expertly around his right hand. With a sickening jolt to his stomach, he remembers the events before he passed out. It doesn’t seem possible - it  _can’t_  be - that his little finger is gone. Eight fingers, two thumbs - those are the hands he knows. How could one of his fingers no longer  _be_  there? He tries to move the small stump and a sharp flash of pain shoots down to his wrist. He wonders briefly where his finger is now. Probably being used by Deadpool to stir his coffee.

  He supposes he can be thankful it wasn’t either of his middle fingers Deadpool chose to mutilate, the ones that enable him to web-swing with the greatest ease. Still, what are the chances that he’ll ever get the chance to do that again, now that the bastard has him? If he is ever allowed to leave this hellish place, it’s doubtful he’ll be the Peter Parker that woke up in the cage, full of fight and strength. He knows if he doesn’t eat something substantial soon, his fighting and healing gifts will be greatly compromised. He needs to persuade Deadpool to give him some proper food and a decent amount of water somehow. He needs to play his game, or risk losing more than just a finger.

  Jaunty whistling and the menacing _ssshhhhhhhiink_ of a blade being sharpened announces his tormentor’s arrival. Peter squeezes his eyes shut, his knees shaking against the saddle. A large hand slaps his ass cheek and he winces, falling deathly still when he recognises the bite of a blade against the bones of his spine.

  “I should stick this up your cute little tooshie for your little performance,” Deadpool says conversationally. “You should be thankful that our sponsor requires more action before any fatal blows.”

  ‘Sponsor’? Did that mean someone was paying Deadpool to do this? It would explain the photos, and the camera winking expectantly down at them. Who would possibly have a reason to want him mutilated and tortured like this? Who could hate him that much? He liked to think even his most vehement enemies had better taste than that. Mostly they just wanted to punch his lights out.

  Deadpool’s fingers probe at his asshole, one digit slipping inside. At least his gloves appear to be off. The taut position of his ass makes the intrusion less startling, though it’s still a thoroughly unpleasant sensation. He’s under no delusion that one finger is all he’s getting.

  “You know, I was really looking forward to a nice night out,” Deadpool says. “Me time is so important – long bath, nice glass of wine, unbridled bloodshed . . . Not really fair of you to spoil that.”

  “You cut my finger off,” Peter says acidly, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

  “And you’re most welcome,” Deadpool says. “Like I said, could have been your hands.”

  He removes his finger and Peter hears the rustling of clothing being removed and, knowing what’s coming, tries a desperate yank at his restraints.

  “Aww, baby,” Deadpool chuckles. “So much spirit. I always did like that about you.” He smooths a hand over Peter’s ass, appreciating the almost totally repaired skin. “I was gonna wait a bit before putting Deadpool Jr. in his happy place – at least until chapter three – but it seems the powers that be got impatient.”

  If the unsolicited violation of his asshole wasn’t imminent, Peter may have asked what the hell he was talking about, but it was unlikely he would have received a straight answer, anyway.

  “Please don’t,” he begs in desperation. It’s not just the idea of having Deadpool’s cum inside him (he’s not naïve enough to assume the merc would wear a condom) – it’s more that Lord knows when the last time he was checked.

  “Usually,” Deadpool tantalises Peter’s hole with his thick cockhead (how is it even going to _fit_?), “this would be the part where I say ‘don’t worry, baby, I’m clean’.” He pushes against the tight skin and Peter wails with pain and misery as his body hastens to accommodate the girth. Deadpool gives a long exhale and leans over Peter’s body, his lips centimetres from his hear. “But where’s the fun in that?”

  The searing pain that echoes throughout Peter’s body is unlike anything he’s ever experienced. As Deadpool forces himself deep inside, right to the hilt, he allows the curtain of his dignity to fall and gasps and whimpers like a child. Deadpool’s hand creeps round his body, slipping between his stomach and the saddle, and presses down on the protruding lump in Peter’s lower abdomen.

  “Feel that, baby boy?” he growls, voice soaked in lust. “That’s me inside you. Isn’t it incredible?”

  “Get out!” Peter wails, almost sobbing. “Please!”

  “You want this.”

  “No!”

  “Say it, then.”

  “I don’t want it!” Tears rain onto the stone floor beneath him.

  Deadpool smirks and pulls back, only to sheath himself again with a powerful shove that forces the air from Peter’s lungs. “That’s it, baby. Give ‘em what they want.” Every sentence is punctuated by a harsh thrust. “They knew what they were in for. They love this, even if they don’t wanna admit it to themselves.”

  Peter sobs in pain as Deadpool’s hips move faster, driving harder into him, violating him, strangling his virginity to death with clawed, blood-soaked fingers. He feels Deadpool’s long fingers entwine in his hair, pulling his head back, exposing his throat to the camera.

  “They want you in pain,” Deadpool grunts. “They want you raped, chained, tortured, all of the above. They wanna imagine your pretty little face all screwed up in agony, watch the tears fall from your sweet baby browns. D’you wanna know why you’re here, Spider-Man?” He runs his moist tongue over the shell of Peter’s ear. “ _Because they want to see you break._ They want to watch you waltz the Danse Macabre, sing like a lark to their little tune, then shatter into a thousand pieces. Body or brain, I don’t think they’re fussy.”

  Peter has no idea what he’s talking about. His voice drones through his mind like a hundred angry bees, filling the gaps not taken up by the shards of pain piercing him like rusty nails.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie,” Deadpool says, his voice a little breathless, his pace becoming erratic, “it only hurts for now. Next time you’ll beg for it.”

  Peter almost screams in disgust as Deadpool’s hips lock in place, warm, gelatinous cum shooting deep inside. His asshole flutters and gapes when the thick cock is removed, bubbles and drops of blood-stained semen being expelled onto the floor.

  “Messy puppy,” Deadpool tuts. He picks up a large black plug from a nearby table and fastens it securely inside Peter’s stretched hole, something the teen barely registers. His vision is blurred, his body sagging with exhaustion and pain. Deadpool crouches in front of him, head cocked to one side.

  “You wanna know who’s idea this was?” he says. “You might think some neckbeard in his mom’s basement, but no – some cute little Polish twenty-something. Guess the sadists are broadening their recruitment scope.”

  Peter can feel his consciousness slipping away like sand through an hourglass, his eyelids drooping, heavy as lead. Deadpool strokes his hair.

  “It’s okay, baby,” he whispers. “Daddy’s gonna take care of you. You’re home now.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After reading the comments so far, I just want to say that I would never kink-shame any of you lovelies! I'm the biggest fiend I know and love all degrees of this kink.


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